. "This way, if you dare to follow. I
am not afraid to go first, so you need give no thought of the chances of
steel between your ribs."

The Etheling took his hand off his weapon with a twinge of shame; but he
was not without misgivings as he strode along at Rothgar's heels. Unless
the youngling had made a decided change for the worse, what satisfaction
could the Jotun expect to get from witnessing their meeting? Before his
mind, there rose again the tear-stained boyish face which had bidden
him farewell that night at the postern, and his pulses throbbed with a
fierce pity.

"He took himself from the one person who was dear to him, poor little
cub," he murmured. "If they have maimed him, I swear I will tuck him
under my arm and cut my way out though there be a wall of the brutes
around him."

His musings came to an end, as the man preceding him stopped suddenly
where one of the milky panes broken from the cloister window gave a view
of the cloister garden. With the cold November sunshine a hum of voices
was coming in, now brightened by peals of laughter, again blurred by the
thud of falling quoits. Over the Jotun's shoulder, he caught a glimpse
of gorgeous nobles and fair-haired women scattered in graceful groups
about a sunny old garden, green in the very face of winter, thanks to
the protecting shelter of the gray walls.

Only a glimpse,--for even as he looked, Rothgar caught his cloak and
pulled him ahead. "Yonder door is a better place to look through;
already it is open, and the shadow inside is thick enough to hide us."

Pricked as he was by a dozen spurs, Sebert offered no resistance. In a
moment, they stood just out of reach of the square of light which fell
through the open doorway. Framed in carved stone, the quaint old garden
with its gravelled paths, its weedless turfs and its background of
ivy-hung walls, lay before them like a picture.

In the longest of the oval spaces, a group of maidens and warriors were
gathered to watch a wonderful flower-faced woman play at quoits under
the instruction of a noble tutor. At every one of her graceful blunders
her laughter rang out in fairy music, which was sweetly echoed by her
maids; but the men appeared to see nothing but her beauty as she poised
herself lightly before them like some shining azure bird on tiptoe for
flight. Sebert paid her the tribute of a quickly drawn breath, even as
he took his eyes from her to scan the butterfly pages who ran to and
fro,